"Three cents a day," he muttered. "In forty
years I might be worth four hundred and thirty-eight dollars and
ten cents,--and then I might marry Mary. Ah, Mary!" The young
carpenter sighed, and, drawing a twenty-five cent daguerreotype
from his vest-pocket, gazed long and fervidly upon the features of
a young girl in book muslin and a coral necklace. Then, with a
resolute expression, he carefully locked the door of his workshop
and departed.
Alas! his good resolutions were too late. We trifle with the tide
of fortune which too often nips us in the bud and casts the dark
shadow of misfortune over the bright lexicon of youth! That night
the half-consumed fragment of John Jenkins's cigar set fire to his
workshop and burned it up, together with all his tools and
materials. There was no insurance.
CHAPTER II.
THE DOWNWARD PATH.
"Then you still persist in marrying John Jenkins?" queried Judge
Boompointer, as he playfully, with paternal familiarity, lifted the
golden curls of the village belle, Mary Jones.
"I do," replied the fair young girl, in a low voice, that resembled
rock candy in its saccharine firmness,--"I do. He has promised to
reform.
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